Most Popular YA Books In 2018

I don’t know what kind of weird lightning that struck me over night, but now all I can think about is YA books.

No, listen. For those of you who have been following this blog for some time, you know that I barely read Young Adult books. I mean, no offense, there are some gems in the YA genre, but most of it are just really predictable and are basically the same plot over and over again with a dash of variety. With that said, I do read YA every now and then, but I am really picky about the books I read.

However, since a few days ago, I think I might have been struck by the YA God himself because I have just been one clicking so many young adult books! It is insane! I have been going through friends lists, Goodreads lists, just basically all the lists that contains YA books out there so that I can find more books to add to my already over flowing book shelf.

I don’t know what has come into me. And after almost a week of still being on that YA book craze, I have given up trying to figure it out. Instead, I decided to just ride out this YA fever and whip up a list of my own while I’m at it.

1. The Cruel Prince (The Folk of the Air #1)

Genre : Fantasy, Young Adult, Romance, Fae

Type : Trilogy

Status : On-going series

BLURB :

Of course I want to be like them. They’re beautiful as blades forged in some divine fire. They will live forever.

And Cardan is even more beautiful than the rest. I hate him more than all the others. I hate him so much that sometimes when I look at him, I can hardly breathe.

Jude was seven when her parents were murdered and she and her two sisters were stolen away to live in the treacherous High Court of Faerie. Ten years later, Jude wants nothing more than to belong there, despite her mortality. But many of the fey despise humans. Especially Prince Cardan, the youngest and wickedest son of the High King.

To win a place at the Court, she must defy him–and face the consequences.

As Jude becomes more deeply embroiled in palace intrigues and deceptions, she discovers her own capacity for trickery and bloodshed. But as betrayal threatens to drown the Courts of Faerie in violence, Jude will need to risk her life in a dangerous alliance to save her sisters, and Faerie itself.

”Excerpt”

As dawn breaks, I open the windows to my bedroom and let the last of the cool night air flow in as I strip off my Court dress. I feel hot all over. My skin feels too tight, and my heart won’t stop racing.

I’ve been to Court before many times. I’ve been witness to more awfulness than wings being torn or my person insulted. Faeries make up for their inability to lie with a panoply of deceptions and cruelties. Twisted words, pranks, omissions, riddles, scandals, not to mention their revenges upon one another for ancient, half-remembered slights. Storms are less fickle than they are, seas less capricious.

Like, for example, as a redcap, Madoc needs bloodshed the way a mermaid needs the salt spray of the sea. After every battle, he ritually dips his hood into the blood of his enemies. I’ve seen the hood, kept under glass in the armory. The fabric is stiff and stained a brown so deep it’s almost black, except for a few smears of green.

Sometimes I go down and stare at it, trying to see my parents in the tide lines of dried blood. I want to feel something, something besides a vague queasiness. I want to feel more, but every time I look at it, I feel less.

I think about going to the armory now, but I don’t. I stand in front of my window and imagine myself a fearless knight, imagine myself a witch who hid her heart in her finger and then chopped her finger off.

“I’m so tired,” I say out loud. “So tired.”

I sit there for a long time, watching the rising sun gild the sky, listening to the waves crash as the tide goes out, when a creature flies up to alight on the edge of my window. At first it seems like an owl, but it’s got hob eyes. “Tired of what, sweetmeat?” it asks me.

I sigh and answer honestly for once. “Of being powerless.”

The hob studies my face, then flies off into the night.

~~~

I sleep the day away and wake disoriented, battling my way out of the long, embroidered curtains around my bed. Drool has dried along one of my cheeks.

I find bathwater waiting for me, but it has gone tepid. Servants must have come and gone. I climb in anyway and splash my face. Living in Faerie, it’s impossible not to notice that everyone else smells like verbena or crushed pine needles, dried blood or milkweed. I smell like pit sweat and sour breath unless I scrub myself clean.

When Tatterfell comes in to light the lamps, she finds me dressing for a lecture, which begins in the late afternoons and stretches on into some evenings. I wear gray leather boots and a tunic with Madoc’s crest—a dagger, a crescent moon turned on its side so it rests like a cup, and a single drop of blood falling from one corner embroidered in silk thread.

Downstairs, I find Taryn at the banquet table, alone, nursing a cup of nettle tea and picking at a bannock. Today, she does not suggest anything will be fun.

Madoc insists—perhaps out of guilt or shame—that we be treated like the children of Faerie. That we take the same lessons, that we be given whatever they have. Changelings have been brought to the High Court before, but none of them has been raised like Gentry.

He doesn’t understand how much that makes them loathe us.

Not that I am not grateful. I like the lessons. Answering the lecturers cleverly is something no one can take from me, even if the lecturers themselves occasionally pretend otherwise. I will take a frustrated nod in place of effusive praise. I will take it and be glad because it means I can belong whether they like it or not.

Vivi used to go with us, but then she became bored and didn’t bother. Madoc raged, but since his approval of a thing only makes her despise it, all his railing just made her more determined to never, ever go back. She has tried to persuade us to stay home with her, but if Taryn and I cannot manage the machinations of the children of Faerie without quitting our lessons or running to Madoc, how will he ever believe we can manage the Court, where those same machinations will play out on a grander and more deadly scale?

As dawn breaks, I open the windows to my bedroom and let the last of the cool night air flow in as I strip off my Court dress. I feel hot all over. My skin feels too tight, and my heart won’t stop racing.

I’ve been to Court before many times. I’ve been witness to more awfulness than wings being torn or my person insulted. Faeries make up for their inability to lie with a panoply of deceptions and cruelties. Twisted words, pranks, omissions, riddles, scandals, not to mention their revenges upon one another for ancient, half-remembered slights. Storms are less fickle than they are, seas less capricious.

Like, for example, as a redcap, Madoc needs bloodshed the way a mermaid needs the salt spray of the sea. After every battle, he ritually dips his hood into the blood of his enemies. I’ve seen the hood, kept under glass in the armory. The fabric is stiff and stained a brown so deep it’s almost black, except for a few smears of green.

Sometimes I go down and stare at it, trying to see my parents in the tide lines of dried blood. I want to feel something, something besides a vague queasiness. I want to feel more, but every time I look at it, I feel less.

I think about going to the armory now, but I don’t. I stand in front of my window and imagine myself a fearless knight, imagine myself a witch who hid her heart in her finger and then chopped her finger off.

“I’m so tired,” I say out loud. “So tired.”

I sit there for a long time, watching the rising sun gild the sky, listening to the waves crash as the tide goes out, when a creature flies up to alight on the edge of my window. At first it seems like an owl, but it’s got hob eyes. “Tired of what, sweetmeat?” it asks me.

I sigh and answer honestly for once. “Of being powerless.”

The hob studies my face, then flies off into the night.

~~~

I sleep the day away and wake disoriented, battling my way out of the long, embroidered curtains around my bed. Drool has dried along one of my cheeks.

I find bathwater waiting for me, but it has gone tepid. Servants must have come and gone. I climb in anyway and splash my face. Living in Faerie, it’s impossible not to notice that everyone else smells like verbena or crushed pine needles, dried blood or milkweed. I smell like pit sweat and sour breath unless I scrub myself clean.

When Tatterfell comes in to light the lamps, she finds me dressing for a lecture, which begins in the late afternoons and stretches on into some evenings. I wear gray leather boots and a tunic with Madoc’s crest—a dagger, a crescent moon turned on its side so it rests like a cup, and a single drop of blood falling from one corner embroidered in silk thread.

Downstairs, I find Taryn at the banquet table, alone, nursing a cup of nettle tea and picking at a bannock. Today, she does not suggest anything will be fun.

Madoc insists—perhaps out of guilt or shame—that we be treated like the children of Faerie. That we take the same lessons, that we be given whatever they have. Changelings have been brought to the High Court before, but none of them has been raised like Gentry.

He doesn’t understand how much that makes them loathe us.

Not that I am not grateful. I like the lessons. Answering the lecturers cleverly is something no one can take from me, even if the lecturers themselves occasionally pretend otherwise. I will take a frustrated nod in place of effusive praise. I will take it and be glad because it means I can belong whether they like it or not.

Vivi used to go with us, but then she became bored and didn’t bother. Madoc raged, but since his approval of a thing only makes her despise it, all his railing just made her more determined to never, ever go back. She has tried to persuade us to stay home with her, but if Taryn and I cannot manage the machinations of the children of Faerie without quitting our lessons or running to Madoc, how will he ever believe we can manage the Court, where those same machinations will play out on a grander and more deadly scale?

But everything changed the night magic disappeared. Under the orders of a ruthless king, maji were killed, leaving Zélie without a mother and her people without hope.

Now Zélie has one chance to bring back magic and strike against the monarchy. With the help of a rogue princess, Zélie must outwit and outrun the crown prince, who is hell-bent on eradicating magic for good.

Danger lurks in Orïsha, where snow leoponaires prowl and vengeful spirits wait in the waters. Yet the greatest danger may be Zélie herself as she struggles to control her powers and her growing feelings for an enemy.

”Excerpt”

The horn sounds and I jump overboard, crashing into the warm sea with rushing speed. As I hit, our ship shakes.

The first cannons fire.

Vibrations shudder through the water, rippling through my core. Spirits of the dead chill the space around me; fresh kills from today’s games.

All right, I think to myself, remembering Minoli’s animation. Goose bumps prick my skin as the spirits near, my tongue curls at the taste of blood though I keep my mouth closed. The souls are desperate for my touch, for a way to return to life. This is it.

If I’m truly a Reaper, I have to show it now.

“Ẹmí àwọn tí ó ti sùn, mo ké pè yin ní òní—”

I wait for the animations to swirl out of the water before me, but only a few bubbles escape my hands. I try again, drawing from the energy of the dead, but no matter how hard I concentrate, no animations come forth.

Dammit. The air in my throat thins, going faster as my pulse quickens. I can’t do this. I can’t save us—

A blast thunders from above.

I spin as the ship beside ours sinks. Corpses and shattered wood rain down. The water around me reddens. A bloodied body plunges past me to the arena ground.

My gods . . .

Terror grips my chest.

One cannonball to the right and that could’ve been Tzain.

Come on, I coach myself as the air in my lungs shrivels further. There’s no time to fail. I need my magic now.

Oya, please. The prayer feels strange, like a language half-learned and entirely forgotten. But after my awakening, our connection should be stronger than ever. If I call, she has to answer.

I close my eyes, gathering the electric energy of the dead into my bones. I’ve studied the scroll. I can do this.

I can be a Reaper now.

“Ẹmí àwọn tí ó ti sùn—”

A lavender light glows in my hands. Sharp heat courses through my veins. The incantation pushes my spiritual pathways open, allowing ashê to flow through. The first spirit surges through my body, ready for my command. Unlike Minoli, my only knowledge of this animation is his death; my stomach aches from the cannonball that ripped through his gut.

When I finish the incantation, the first animation floats before me, a swirl of vengeance and bubbles and blood. The animation takes the shape of a human, forming its body out of the water around us. Though its expression is clouded by the bubbles, I sense the militant resolve of its spirit. My own soldier. The first in an army of the dead.

For the briefest moment, triumph overpowers the exhaustion running through my muscles. I’ve done it. I’m a Reaper. A true sister of Oya.

A pang of sadness flashes through me. If only Mama could see me now.

But I can still honor her spirit.

I will make every fallen Reaper proud.

“Ẹmí àwọn tí ó ti sùn—”

With the dwindling ashé in me, I chant, casting one more animation to life. I point to a ship, then give my command.

“Bring it down!”

The horn sounds and I jump overboard, crashing into the warm sea with rushing speed. As I hit, our ship shakes.

The first cannons fire.

Vibrations shudder through the water, rippling through my core. Spirits of the dead chill the space around me; fresh kills from today’s games.

All right, I think to myself, remembering Minoli’s animation. Goose bumps prick my skin as the spirits near, my tongue curls at the taste of blood though I keep my mouth closed. The souls are desperate for my touch, for a way to return to life. This is it.

If I’m truly a Reaper, I have to show it now.

“Ẹmí àwọn tí ó ti sùn, mo ké pè yin ní òní—”

I wait for the animations to swirl out of the water before me, but only a few bubbles escape my hands. I try again, drawing from the energy of the dead, but no matter how hard I concentrate, no animations come forth.

Dammit. The air in my throat thins, going faster as my pulse quickens. I can’t do this. I can’t save us—

A blast thunders from above.

I spin as the ship beside ours sinks. Corpses and shattered wood rain down. The water around me reddens. A bloodied body plunges past me to the arena ground.

My gods . . .

Terror grips my chest.

One cannonball to the right and that could’ve been Tzain.

Come on, I coach myself as the air in my lungs shrivels further. There’s no time to fail. I need my magic now.

Oya, please. The prayer feels strange, like a language half-learned and entirely forgotten. But after my awakening, our connection should be stronger than ever. If I call, she has to answer.

I close my eyes, gathering the electric energy of the dead into my bones. I’ve studied the scroll. I can do this.

I can be a Reaper now.

“Ẹmí àwọn tí ó ti sùn—”

A lavender light glows in my hands. Sharp heat courses through my veins. The incantation pushes my spiritual pathways open, allowing ashê to flow through. The first spirit surges through my body, ready for my command. Unlike Minoli, my only knowledge of this animation is his death; my stomach aches from the cannonball that ripped through his gut.

When I finish the incantation, the first animation floats before me, a swirl of vengeance and bubbles and blood. The animation takes the shape of a human, forming its body out of the water around us. Though its expression is clouded by the bubbles, I sense the militant resolve of its spirit. My own soldier. The first in an army of the dead.

For the briefest moment, triumph overpowers the exhaustion running through my muscles. I’ve done it. I’m a Reaper. A true sister of Oya.

A pang of sadness flashes through me. If only Mama could see me now.

But I can still honor her spirit.

I will make every fallen Reaper proud.

“Ẹmí àwọn tí ó ti sùn—”

With the dwindling ashé in me, I chant, casting one more animation to life. I point to a ship, then give my command.

“Bring it down!”

3. A Reaper at the Gates (An Ember in the Ashes #3)

Genre : Fantasy, Young Adult, Romance

Type : Tetralogy

Status : On-going series

BLURB :

Beyond the Empire and within it, the threat of war looms ever larger.

The Blood Shrike, Helene Aquilla, is assailed on all sides. Emperor Marcus, haunted by his past, grows increasingly unstable, while the Commandant capitalizes on his madness to bolster her own power. As Helene searches for a way to hold back the approaching darkness, her sister’s life and the lives of all those in the Empire hang in the balance.

Far to the east, Laia of Serra knows the fate of the world lies not in the machinations of the Martial court, but in stopping the Nightbringer. But while hunting for a way to bring him down, Laia faces unexpected threats from those she hoped would aid her, and is drawn into a battle she never thought she’d have to fight.

And in the land between the living and the dead, Elias Veturius has given up his freedom to serve as Soul Catcher. But in doing so, he has vowed himself to an ancient power that will stop at nothing to ensure Elias’s devotion–even at the cost of his humanity.

”Excerpt”

“Curse you!” I keep an iron grip around Laia of Serra, but she resists me with all her strength. She refuses to drop her invisibility, and I feel as if I’m grappling with an angry, camouflaged fish. I curse myself for not knocking her out the moment I grabbed her.

She lands a nasty kick to my ankle before elbowing me in the gut. My hold on her weakens, and she’s out of my hands. I lunge toward the sound of her boot scraping the floor, savagely satisfied at the huff of her breath leaving her lungs as I tackle her. Finally, she flickers into being, and before she can play her little disappearing trick again, I twist her hands back and truss her tighter than a festival-day goat. Still panting, I shove her into a chair.

She looks at the other occupant of the cabin — Mamie Rila, bound and barely conscious — and snarls through her gag. She kicks out like a mule, her boot connecting beneath my knee. I grimace at the pain. Don’t backhand her, Shrike.

Even as she fights, a fey part of my mind trills at the life within her. She has healed. She is strong. The fact should irk me.

But the magic I used on Laia binds us together, a tie that runs deeper than I’d like. I feel relief at her vigor, as if I’d learned that my little sister Livia is healthy.

Which she won’t be for much longer, if this plan doesn’t work. Fear lances through me, followed by a harsh stab of memory. The throne room. Emperor Marcus. My mother’s throat: cut. My sister Hannah’s throat: cut. My father’s throat: cut. All because of me.

I will not see Livia die too. I need to carry out Marcus’s orders and bring down Commandant Keris Veturia. If I don’t return to Antium from this mission with something I can use against her, Marcus will take his rage out on his empress — Livia. He has done so before.

But the Commandant appears unassailable. The low-class Plebeians and Mercator traders support her because she quelled the Scholar revolution. The most powerful families in the Empire, the Illustrians, fear her and Gens Veturia. She’s too wily to allow an assassin close, and even if I did take her out, her allies would rise up in revolt.

Which means I must first weaken her status among the Gens. I must show them that she is still human.

And to do that, I need Elias Veturius. The son who is supposed to be dead, who Keris claimed was dead, but who is, I recently learned, very much alive. Presenting him as evidence of Keris’s failure is the first step toward convincing her allies that she’s not as strong as she appears.

“The more you fight me,” I say to Laia, “the tighter your bonds will get.” I yank on the ropes. When she winces, I feel an unpleasant twinge deep within. A side effect of healing her?

It will destroy you if you’re not careful. The Nightbringer’s words about my healing magic echo in my mind. Is this what he meant? That the ties to those I healed are unbreakable?

He doesn’t look away from Mamie. Unsurprising. Months ago, when we were hunting down Elias, Dex interrogated Mamie and other members of Tribe Saif on my orders. His guilt has plagued him since.

“Atrius!” I snap. Dex’s head jerks up. “Get into position.”

He shakes himself and disappears. Harper waits patiently for orders, unruffled by Laia’s muffled curses and Mamie’s moans of pain.

“Check the perimeter,” I tell him. “Make sure none of the villagers wandered back.” I didn’t spend weeks setting up this ambush so a curious Plebe could ruin it.

As Laia of Serra follows Harper’s progress out the door, I pull out a dirk and pare my nails. The girl’s dark clothes fit her closely, hugging those irritating curves in a way that makes me conscious of every awkwardly jutting bone in my body. I’ve taken her pack, along with a well-worn dagger I recognize with a jolt. It’s Elias’s. His grandfather Quin gave it to him as a sixteenth year-fall gift.

And Elias, apparently, gave it to Laia.

She hisses against the gag as her gaze darts between me and Mamie. Her defiance reminds me of Hannah. I wonder briefly if, in another life, the Scholar and I could have been friends.

“If you promise not to scream,” I tell her, “I’ll take off your gag.”

She considers before nodding once. The moment I pull off the gag, she lashes out.

“What have you done to her?” Her seat thumps as she strains toward a now unconscious Mamie Rila. “She needs medicine. What kind of monster—”

The crack that echoes through the cottage when I slap her into silence surprises even me. As does the nausea that almost doubles me over. What the skies? I grab the table for support but straighten before Laia can see.

She juts out her chin as she lifts her head. Blood drips from her nose. Surprise fills those golden, catlike eyes, followed by a healthy dose of fear. About time.

“Curse you!” I keep an iron grip around Laia of Serra, but she resists me with all her strength. She refuses to drop her invisibility, and I feel as if I’m grappling with an angry, camouflaged fish. I curse myself for not knocking her out the moment I grabbed her.

She lands a nasty kick to my ankle before elbowing me in the gut. My hold on her weakens, and she’s out of my hands. I lunge toward the sound of her boot scraping the floor, savagely satisfied at the huff of her breath leaving her lungs as I tackle her. Finally, she flickers into being, and before she can play her little disappearing trick again, I twist her hands back and truss her tighter than a festival-day goat. Still panting, I shove her into a chair.

She looks at the other occupant of the cabin — Mamie Rila, bound and barely conscious — and snarls through her gag. She kicks out like a mule, her boot connecting beneath my knee. I grimace at the pain. Don’t backhand her, Shrike.

Even as she fights, a fey part of my mind trills at the life within her. She has healed. She is strong. The fact should irk me.

But the magic I used on Laia binds us together, a tie that runs deeper than I’d like. I feel relief at her vigor, as if I’d learned that my little sister Livia is healthy.

Which she won’t be for much longer, if this plan doesn’t work. Fear lances through me, followed by a harsh stab of memory. The throne room. Emperor Marcus. My mother’s throat: cut. My sister Hannah’s throat: cut. My father’s throat: cut. All because of me.

I will not see Livia die too. I need to carry out Marcus’s orders and bring down Commandant Keris Veturia. If I don’t return to Antium from this mission with something I can use against her, Marcus will take his rage out on his empress — Livia. He has done so before.

But the Commandant appears unassailable. The low-class Plebeians and Mercator traders support her because she quelled the Scholar revolution. The most powerful families in the Empire, the Illustrians, fear her and Gens Veturia. She’s too wily to allow an assassin close, and even if I did take her out, her allies would rise up in revolt.

Which means I must first weaken her status among the Gens. I must show them that she is still human.

And to do that, I need Elias Veturius. The son who is supposed to be dead, who Keris claimed was dead, but who is, I recently learned, very much alive. Presenting him as evidence of Keris’s failure is the first step toward convincing her allies that she’s not as strong as she appears.

“The more you fight me,” I say to Laia, “the tighter your bonds will get.” I yank on the ropes. When she winces, I feel an unpleasant twinge deep within. A side effect of healing her?

It will destroy you if you’re not careful. The Nightbringer’s words about my healing magic echo in my mind. Is this what he meant? That the ties to those I healed are unbreakable?

He doesn’t look away from Mamie. Unsurprising. Months ago, when we were hunting down Elias, Dex interrogated Mamie and other members of Tribe Saif on my orders. His guilt has plagued him since.

“Atrius!” I snap. Dex’s head jerks up. “Get into position.”

He shakes himself and disappears. Harper waits patiently for orders, unruffled by Laia’s muffled curses and Mamie’s moans of pain.

“Check the perimeter,” I tell him. “Make sure none of the villagers wandered back.” I didn’t spend weeks setting up this ambush so a curious Plebe could ruin it.

As Laia of Serra follows Harper’s progress out the door, I pull out a dirk and pare my nails. The girl’s dark clothes fit her closely, hugging those irritating curves in a way that makes me conscious of every awkwardly jutting bone in my body. I’ve taken her pack, along with a well-worn dagger I recognize with a jolt. It’s Elias’s. His grandfather Quin gave it to him as a sixteenth year-fall gift.

And Elias, apparently, gave it to Laia.

She hisses against the gag as her gaze darts between me and Mamie. Her defiance reminds me of Hannah. I wonder briefly if, in another life, the Scholar and I could have been friends.

“If you promise not to scream,” I tell her, “I’ll take off your gag.”

She considers before nodding once. The moment I pull off the gag, she lashes out.

“What have you done to her?” Her seat thumps as she strains toward a now unconscious Mamie Rila. “She needs medicine. What kind of monster—”

The crack that echoes through the cottage when I slap her into silence surprises even me. As does the nausea that almost doubles me over. What the skies? I grab the table for support but straighten before Laia can see.

She juts out her chin as she lifts her head. Blood drips from her nose. Surprise fills those golden, catlike eyes, followed by a healthy dose of fear. About time.

4. Obsidio (The Illuminae Files #3)

Genre : Science Fiction, Young Adult, Dystopian, Romance

Type : Trilogy

Status : Completed series

BLURB :

Kady, Ezra, Hanna, and Nik narrowly escaped with their lives from the attacks on Heimdall station and now find themselves crammed with 2,000 refugees on the container ship, Mao. With the jump station destroyed and their resources scarce, the only option is to return to Kerenza—but who knows what they’ll find seven months after the invasion?

Meanwhile, Kady’s cousin, Asha, survived the initial BeiTech assault and has joined Kerenza’s ragtag underground resistance. When Rhys—an old flame from Asha’s past—reappears on Kerenza, the two find themselves on opposite sides of the conflict.

With time running out, a final battle will be waged on land and in space, heroes will fall, and hearts will be broken.

”Excerpt”

Footage begins with an audio track only. There’s a hiss of static as systems come online. The bass drone of engines rumbling over the tremors of atmospheric reentry and snatches of soft conversation.

“—so I said to her, ‘Fem, I didn’t see your name on him, and if you can’t kee—’ ”

“—nly been three weeks since our last rotation, chum. This is bull—”

“—frostbite. Lost both hands and his nose if you—”

“—insurgency my***—”

A flicker of snow rolls across my screens as the feeds fade into view.We’re in the belly of a BeiTech Locust—a surface-to-orbit shuttle built for heavy lifting during planetside incursions. The surfaces are gunmetal gray, lit by strips of scuffed red fluorescence. A wall of monitors dances with data. The ship’s a military transport, armored and armed for business. On the rear bay doors, beneath the phoenix logo of BeiTech Industries, three words are spray-painted in neat stenciled letters.

The holy trinity of every corp grunt’s life.

COMPANYCOMMANDERCORPS

The Locust’s belly is filled with soldiers. Orbital infantry, aka “ground pounders,” trained for atmo-to-surface seizure operations. Two dozen men and women, most in their early twenties, each busy encasing themselves in the sleek lines of an Armored Tactical Light Assault Suit’s plasteel and ballistics-grade nanofiber weave, painted in the white and gray of winter camouflage. They look like a cross between praying mantises and knights from the archive vids, except Sir Lancelot never carried a gun big enough to kill a building with.

Every ATLAS is fitted with a shoulder-mounted personal cam. The footage quality from their feeds is good, audio is excellent. I’ll say one thing for BeiTech: When they plan an illegal planetary invasion/genocide, they don’t spare any expense.

One soldier stands out in the crowd. Quiet amid the familiar banter. He’s younger than the rest. Eighteen, maybe nineteen. His ATLAS is showroom new; no dings or scuffs or scars, none of the hand-drawn decorations that distinguish one pounder’s faceless suit from another. He has a square jaw. Sharp gray eyes, just a touch too wide. Sandy blond hair, styled into a quiff that, if it doesn’t violate regulations, damn well should. It sure as **** violates the laws of gravity. One of my fellow vid analysts—who insists on peering over my shoulder as I work—says she would “hit that like it owed her all the ISĦ in the ’verse.”

The name LINDSTROM, RHYS is stenciled on his breastplate.

Pretty as the kid might be, when his fellow soldiers look at him at all, they do it with narrowed eyes.“****ing cherry…,” one sneers.

“Green as grass.”

“He old enough to have turf on the pitch, you think?”

“Ask your sister.”

“Hey, ****you, Oshiro.”

“Say please, loverboy.”

Footage begins with an audio track only. There’s a hiss of static as systems come online. The bass drone of engines rumbling over the tremors of atmospheric reentry and snatches of soft conversation.

“—so I said to her, ‘Fem, I didn’t see your name on him, and if you can’t kee—’ ”

“—nly been three weeks since our last rotation, chum. This is bull—”

“—frostbite. Lost both hands and his nose if you—”

“—insurgency my***—”

A flicker of snow rolls across my screens as the feeds fade into view.We’re in the belly of a BeiTech Locust—a surface-to-orbit shuttle built for heavy lifting during planetside incursions. The surfaces are gunmetal gray, lit by strips of scuffed red fluorescence. A wall of monitors dances with data. The ship’s a military transport, armored and armed for business. On the rear bay doors, beneath the phoenix logo of BeiTech Industries, three words are spray-painted in neat stenciled letters.

The holy trinity of every corp grunt’s life.

COMPANYCOMMANDERCORPS

The Locust’s belly is filled with soldiers. Orbital infantry, aka “ground pounders,” trained for atmo-to-surface seizure operations. Two dozen men and women, most in their early twenties, each busy encasing themselves in the sleek lines of an Armored Tactical Light Assault Suit’s plasteel and ballistics-grade nanofiber weave, painted in the white and gray of winter camouflage. They look like a cross between praying mantises and knights from the archive vids, except Sir Lancelot never carried a gun big enough to kill a building with.

Every ATLAS is fitted with a shoulder-mounted personal cam. The footage quality from their feeds is good, audio is excellent. I’ll say one thing for BeiTech: When they plan an illegal planetary invasion/genocide, they don’t spare any expense.

One soldier stands out in the crowd. Quiet amid the familiar banter. He’s younger than the rest. Eighteen, maybe nineteen. His ATLAS is showroom new; no dings or scuffs or scars, none of the hand-drawn decorations that distinguish one pounder’s faceless suit from another. He has a square jaw. Sharp gray eyes, just a touch too wide. Sandy blond hair, styled into a quiff that, if it doesn’t violate regulations, damn well should. It sure as **** violates the laws of gravity. One of my fellow vid analysts—who insists on peering over my shoulder as I work—says she would “hit that like it owed her all the ISĦ in the ’verse.”

The name LINDSTROM, RHYS is stenciled on his breastplate.

Pretty as the kid might be, when his fellow soldiers look at him at all, they do it with narrowed eyes.“****ing cherry…,” one sneers.

“Green as grass.”

“He old enough to have turf on the pitch, you think?”

“Ask your sister.”

“Hey, ****you, Oshiro.”

“Say please, loverboy.”

5. Thunderhead (Arc of a Scythe #2)

Genre : Science Fiction, Young Adult, Dystopian, Fantasy

Type : Trilogy

Status : On-going series

BLURB :

Rowan has gone rogue, and has taken it upon himself to put the Scythedom through a trial by fire. Literally. In the year since Winter Conclave, he has gone off-grid, and has been striking out against corrupt scythes—not only in MidMerica, but across the entire continent. He is a dark folk hero now—“Scythe Lucifer”—a vigilante taking down corrupt scythes in flames.

Citra, now a junior scythe under Scythe Curie, sees the corruption and wants to help change it from the inside out, but is thwarted at every turn, and threatened by the “new order” scythes. Realizing she cannot do this alone—or even with the help of Scythe Curie and Faraday, she does the unthinkable, and risks being “deadish” so she can communicate with the Thunderhead—the only being on earth wise enough to solve the dire problems of a perfect world. But will it help solve those problems, or simply watch as perfection goes into decline?

”Excerpt”

Peach velvet with embroidered baby-blue trim. Honorable Scythe Brahms loved his robe. True, the velvet became uncomfortably hot in the summer months, but it was something he had grown accustomed to in his sixty-three years as a scythe.

He had recently turned the corner again, resetting his physical age back to a spry twenty-five — and now, in his third youth, he found his appetite for gleaning was stronger than ever.

His routine was always the same, though methods varied. He would choose his subject, restrain him or her, then play a lullaby — Brahms’s lullaby to be exact — the most famous piece of music composed by his “Patron Historic.” After all, if a scythe must choose a figure from history to name oneself after, shouldn’t that figure be integrated somehow into the scythe’s life? He would play the lullaby on whatever instrument was convenient, and if there was none available, he would simply hum it. And then he would end the subject’s life.

Politically, he leaned toward the teachings of the late Scythe Goddard of MidMerica, for he enjoyed gleaning immensely, and saw no reason why that should be a problem for anyone. “In a perfect world shouldn’t we all enjoy what we do?” Goddard wrote. It was a sentiment gaining traction in more and more regional Scythedoms.

On this evening Scythe Brahms had just accomplished a particularly entertaining gleaning in downtown Omaha, and was still whistling his signature tune as he sauntered down the street, wondering where he might find himself a late evening meal. But he stopped in mid-stanza, having a distinct feeling that he was being watched.

There were, of course, cameras on every light post in the city. The Thunderhead was ever vigilant — but for a scythe, its slumberless, unblinking eyes were of no concern. It was powerless to even comment on the comings and goings of scythes, much less act upon anything it saw. The Thunderhead was the ultimate voyeur of death.

This feeling, however, was more than the observational nature of the Thunderhead. Scythes were trained in perceptive skills. They were not prescient, but five highly developed senses could often have the semblance of a sixth. A scent, a sound, an errant shadow too minor to register consciously might be enough to make a well-trained scythe’s neck hairs bristle.

Scythe Brahms turned, sniffed, listened. He took in his surroundings. He was alone on a side street. Elsewhere, he could hear the sounds of street cafes and the ever-vibrant nightlife of the city, but the street he was on was lined with shops that were shuttered this time of night. Cleaners and clothiers. A hardware store and a daycare center. The lonely street belonged to him and the unseen interloper.

“Come out,” he said. “I know you’re there.”

He thought it might be a child, or perhaps an unsavory hoping to bargain for immunity — as if an unsavory might have anything with which to bargain. Maybe it was a Tonist. Tone cults despised scythes, and although Brahms had never heard of Tonists actually attacking a scythe, they have been known to torment.

“I won’t harm you,” Brahms said. “I’ve just completed a gleaning — I have no desire to increase my tally today.” Although, admittedly, he might change his mind if the interloper was either too offensive, or obsequious.

Still no one stepped forward.

“Fine,” he said. “Be gone, then, I have neither time nor patience for a game of hide and seek.”

Perhaps it was his imagination after all. Maybe his rejuvenated senses were now so acute that they were responding to stimuli that was much further away than he assumed.

That’s when a figure launched from behind a parked car as if it had been spring-loaded. Brahms was knocked off balance — he would have been taken down entirely if he still had the slow reflexes of an older man, and not his twenty-five-year-old self. He pushed the figure into a wall, and considered pulling out his blades to glean this reprobate, but Scythe Brahms had never been a brave man. So he ran.

He moved in and out of pools of light created by the streetlamps, all the while cameras atop each pole swiveled to watch him.

Peach velvet with embroidered baby-blue trim. Honorable Scythe Brahms loved his robe. True, the velvet became uncomfortably hot in the summer months, but it was something he had grown accustomed to in his sixty-three years as a scythe.

He had recently turned the corner again, resetting his physical age back to a spry twenty-five — and now, in his third youth, he found his appetite for gleaning was stronger than ever.

His routine was always the same, though methods varied. He would choose his subject, restrain him or her, then play a lullaby — Brahms’s lullaby to be exact — the most famous piece of music composed by his “Patron Historic.” After all, if a scythe must choose a figure from history to name oneself after, shouldn’t that figure be integrated somehow into the scythe’s life? He would play the lullaby on whatever instrument was convenient, and if there was none available, he would simply hum it. And then he would end the subject’s life.

Politically, he leaned toward the teachings of the late Scythe Goddard of MidMerica, for he enjoyed gleaning immensely, and saw no reason why that should be a problem for anyone. “In a perfect world shouldn’t we all enjoy what we do?” Goddard wrote. It was a sentiment gaining traction in more and more regional Scythedoms.

On this evening Scythe Brahms had just accomplished a particularly entertaining gleaning in downtown Omaha, and was still whistling his signature tune as he sauntered down the street, wondering where he might find himself a late evening meal. But he stopped in mid-stanza, having a distinct feeling that he was being watched.

There were, of course, cameras on every light post in the city. The Thunderhead was ever vigilant — but for a scythe, its slumberless, unblinking eyes were of no concern. It was powerless to even comment on the comings and goings of scythes, much less act upon anything it saw. The Thunderhead was the ultimate voyeur of death.

This feeling, however, was more than the observational nature of the Thunderhead. Scythes were trained in perceptive skills. They were not prescient, but five highly developed senses could often have the semblance of a sixth. A scent, a sound, an errant shadow too minor to register consciously might be enough to make a well-trained scythe’s neck hairs bristle.

Scythe Brahms turned, sniffed, listened. He took in his surroundings. He was alone on a side street. Elsewhere, he could hear the sounds of street cafes and the ever-vibrant nightlife of the city, but the street he was on was lined with shops that were shuttered this time of night. Cleaners and clothiers. A hardware store and a daycare center. The lonely street belonged to him and the unseen interloper.

“Come out,” he said. “I know you’re there.”

He thought it might be a child, or perhaps an unsavory hoping to bargain for immunity — as if an unsavory might have anything with which to bargain. Maybe it was a Tonist. Tone cults despised scythes, and although Brahms had never heard of Tonists actually attacking a scythe, they have been known to torment.

“I won’t harm you,” Brahms said. “I’ve just completed a gleaning — I have no desire to increase my tally today.” Although, admittedly, he might change his mind if the interloper was either too offensive, or obsequious.

Still no one stepped forward.

“Fine,” he said. “Be gone, then, I have neither time nor patience for a game of hide and seek.”

Perhaps it was his imagination after all. Maybe his rejuvenated senses were now so acute that they were responding to stimuli that was much further away than he assumed.

That’s when a figure launched from behind a parked car as if it had been spring-loaded. Brahms was knocked off balance — he would have been taken down entirely if he still had the slow reflexes of an older man, and not his twenty-five-year-old self. He pushed the figure into a wall, and considered pulling out his blades to glean this reprobate, but Scythe Brahms had never been a brave man. So he ran.

He moved in and out of pools of light created by the streetlamps, all the while cameras atop each pole swiveled to watch him.

6. Legendary (Caraval #2)

Genre : Young Adult, Romance, Fantasy

Type : Trilogy

Status : On-going series

BLURB :

A heart to protect. A debt to repay. A game to win.

After being swept up in the magical world of Caraval, Donatella Dragna has finally escaped her father and saved her sister, Scarlett, from a disastrous arranged marriage. The girls should be celebrating, but Tella isn’t yet free. She made a desperate bargain with a mysterious criminal, and what Tella owes him no one has ever been able to deliver: Caraval Master Legend’s true name.

The only chance of uncovering Legend’s identity is to win Caraval, so Tella throws herself into the legendary competition once more—and into the path of the murderous heir to the throne, a doomed love story, and a web of secrets…including her sister’s. Caraval has always demanded bravery, cunning, and sacrifice, but now the game is asking for more. If Tella can’t fulfill her bargain and deliver Legend’s name, she’ll lose everything she cares about—maybe even her life. But if she wins, Legend and Caraval will be destroyed forever…

Welcome, welcome to Caraval . . . the games have only just begun.

”Excerpt”

While some rooms on the estate had monsters hiding beneath the beds, Tella swore her mother’s suite concealed enchantment. Hints of emerald light dusted the air as if fairies came to play whenever her mother left. The room smelled of flowers plucked from secret gardens, and even when there wasn’t a breeze, the sheer curtains billowed around the magnificent canopy bed. Above, a citrine chandelier greeted Tella with the musical sounds of kissing glass, making it easy for her to imagine the suite was a bewitched portal to another world.

Tella’s tiny feet made no sound as she tiptoed across thick ivory carpets to her mother’s dresser. Quickly, she stole a look over her shoulder and then snatched her mother’s jewelry box. Slick and heavy in Tella’s hands, the box was made of mother-of-pearl and covered in spiderwebbed gold filigree; Tella liked to pretend it was also charmed, for even when her fingers were dirty, they fortunately never left prints.

Tella’s mother didn’t mind if her daughters played with her dresses or tried on her fancy slippers, but she’d asked them not to touch this box, which only made it more irresistible to Tella.Scarlett could spend her afternoons daydreaming about traveling shows like Caraval, but Tella liked to have real adventures.

Today she pretended a wicked queen was holding a young elfin prince captive, and to save him, she needed to steal her mother’s opal ring, Tella’s favorite piece of jewelry. The milky stone was raw and rough, shaped like a starburst, with sharp tips that sometimes pricked her fingers. But when Tella held the opal up toward the light, the stone sparked, covering the room in embers of luminescent cherry, gold, and lavender that hinted at magic curses and rebel pixie dust.

Sadly, the brassy band was too large for Tella’s finger, though every time she opened the box, she still slipped it on in case she’d grown. But this day, right as Tella slid on the ring, she noticed something else.

The chandelier above her stilled as if it, too, had been caught by surprise.

Tella knew every item in her mother’s jewelry case by heart: a carefully folded velvet ribbon edged in gold, bloodred scarlet earrings, a tarnished silver bottle that her mother claimed held angel tears, an ivory locket that wouldn’t open, a jet wristlet that looked as if it belonged on the arm of a witch rather than her mother’s elegant wrist.

The only item Tella never touched was the dirty-gray sachet, which smelled of moldy leaves and charnel-sweet death. It keeps the goblins away, her mother once teased. It kept Tella away as well.But today, the ugly little purse flickered, drawing Tella toward it. One moment it looked like a bundle of rot and smelled of decay. A blink later, in its place rested a gleaming deck of cards, tied with a delicate satin ribbon. Then, in a flash, it was back to the nasty pouch before it transfigured into the cards again.

Abandoning her play mission, Tella quickly grabbed the silky cord and lifted the deck from the box. Instantly they stopped shifting.

The cards were so very, very pretty. Such a dark hue of nightshade they were almost black, with tiny hints of gold flecks that sparkled in the light, and swirly strands of deep red-violet embossing that made Tella think of damp flowers, witches’ blood, and magic.

These were nothing like the flimsy black-and-white cards her father’s guards had taught her to play betting games with. Tella sat down on the carpet. Her nimble fingers tingled as she untied the ribbon and flipped over the first card.

The young woman pictured reminded Tella of a captive princess. Her lovely white dress was shredded, and her tear-shaped eyes were as pretty as polished sea glass, but so sad they hurt to look at. Most likely because her head was caged in a rounded globe of pearls.

The words The Maiden Death were written at the bottom of the card.

Tella shuddered. She did not like the name, and she was not fond of cages, even pearly ones. Suddenly she had the feeling that her mother would not want her seeing these cards, but that didn’t stop Tella from turning over another.

The name at the bottom of this one was The Prince of Hearts.

It showed a young man with a face made of angles, and lips as sharp as two knife blades. One hand near his pointed chin clasped the hilt of a dagger, and red tears fell from his eyes, matching the blood staining the corner of his narrow mouth.

Tella flinched as the prince’s image flickered, there and gone, the same way the foul sachet had wavered earlier.

She should have stopped then. These cards were definitely not toys. Yet a part of her felt as if she was meant to find them. They were more real than the evil queen or the elfin prince of her imagination, and Tella dared to think that perhaps they would lead her on a genuine adventure.The next card felt especially warm against her fingers as Tella turned it over.

The Aracle.

She did not know what the strange name meant, and unlike the other cards, this one did not appear to be violent. The edges were covered in ornate swirls of molten gold, and the center was silver like a mirror—no, it was a mirror. The shining middle reflected Tella’s honey-blond curls and her round hazel eyes. But when Tella looked closer, the image was wrong. Tella’s pink lips were trembling, and fat tears were running down her cheeks.

Tella never cried. Not even when her father used harsh words, or Felipe ignored her in favor of her older sister.

While some rooms on the estate had monsters hiding beneath the beds, Tella swore her mother’s suite concealed enchantment. Hints of emerald light dusted the air as if fairies came to play whenever her mother left. The room smelled of flowers plucked from secret gardens, and even when there wasn’t a breeze, the sheer curtains billowed around the magnificent canopy bed. Above, a citrine chandelier greeted Tella with the musical sounds of kissing glass, making it easy for her to imagine the suite was a bewitched portal to another world.

Tella’s tiny feet made no sound as she tiptoed across thick ivory carpets to her mother’s dresser. Quickly, she stole a look over her shoulder and then snatched her mother’s jewelry box. Slick and heavy in Tella’s hands, the box was made of mother-of-pearl and covered in spiderwebbed gold filigree; Tella liked to pretend it was also charmed, for even when her fingers were dirty, they fortunately never left prints.

Tella’s mother didn’t mind if her daughters played with her dresses or tried on her fancy slippers, but she’d asked them not to touch this box, which only made it more irresistible to Tella.Scarlett could spend her afternoons daydreaming about traveling shows like Caraval, but Tella liked to have real adventures.

Today she pretended a wicked queen was holding a young elfin prince captive, and to save him, she needed to steal her mother’s opal ring, Tella’s favorite piece of jewelry. The milky stone was raw and rough, shaped like a starburst, with sharp tips that sometimes pricked her fingers. But when Tella held the opal up toward the light, the stone sparked, covering the room in embers of luminescent cherry, gold, and lavender that hinted at magic curses and rebel pixie dust.

Sadly, the brassy band was too large for Tella’s finger, though every time she opened the box, she still slipped it on in case she’d grown. But this day, right as Tella slid on the ring, she noticed something else.

The chandelier above her stilled as if it, too, had been caught by surprise.

Tella knew every item in her mother’s jewelry case by heart: a carefully folded velvet ribbon edged in gold, bloodred scarlet earrings, a tarnished silver bottle that her mother claimed held angel tears, an ivory locket that wouldn’t open, a jet wristlet that looked as if it belonged on the arm of a witch rather than her mother’s elegant wrist.

The only item Tella never touched was the dirty-gray sachet, which smelled of moldy leaves and charnel-sweet death. It keeps the goblins away, her mother once teased. It kept Tella away as well.But today, the ugly little purse flickered, drawing Tella toward it. One moment it looked like a bundle of rot and smelled of decay. A blink later, in its place rested a gleaming deck of cards, tied with a delicate satin ribbon. Then, in a flash, it was back to the nasty pouch before it transfigured into the cards again.

Abandoning her play mission, Tella quickly grabbed the silky cord and lifted the deck from the box. Instantly they stopped shifting.

The cards were so very, very pretty. Such a dark hue of nightshade they were almost black, with tiny hints of gold flecks that sparkled in the light, and swirly strands of deep red-violet embossing that made Tella think of damp flowers, witches’ blood, and magic.

These were nothing like the flimsy black-and-white cards her father’s guards had taught her to play betting games with. Tella sat down on the carpet. Her nimble fingers tingled as she untied the ribbon and flipped over the first card.

The young woman pictured reminded Tella of a captive princess. Her lovely white dress was shredded, and her tear-shaped eyes were as pretty as polished sea glass, but so sad they hurt to look at. Most likely because her head was caged in a rounded globe of pearls.

The words The Maiden Death were written at the bottom of the card.

Tella shuddered. She did not like the name, and she was not fond of cages, even pearly ones. Suddenly she had the feeling that her mother would not want her seeing these cards, but that didn’t stop Tella from turning over another.

The name at the bottom of this one was The Prince of Hearts.

It showed a young man with a face made of angles, and lips as sharp as two knife blades. One hand near his pointed chin clasped the hilt of a dagger, and red tears fell from his eyes, matching the blood staining the corner of his narrow mouth.

Tella flinched as the prince’s image flickered, there and gone, the same way the foul sachet had wavered earlier.

She should have stopped then. These cards were definitely not toys. Yet a part of her felt as if she was meant to find them. They were more real than the evil queen or the elfin prince of her imagination, and Tella dared to think that perhaps they would lead her on a genuine adventure.The next card felt especially warm against her fingers as Tella turned it over.

The Aracle.

She did not know what the strange name meant, and unlike the other cards, this one did not appear to be violent. The edges were covered in ornate swirls of molten gold, and the center was silver like a mirror—no, it was a mirror. The shining middle reflected Tella’s honey-blond curls and her round hazel eyes. But when Tella looked closer, the image was wrong. Tella’s pink lips were trembling, and fat tears were running down her cheeks.

Tella never cried. Not even when her father used harsh words, or Felipe ignored her in favor of her older sister.

7. Shatter Me (Restore Me #4)

Genre : Young Adult, Fantasy, Science Fiction, Romance, Dystopia

Type : Hexalogy (6 books)

Status : On-going series

BLURB :

Juliette Ferrars thought she’d won. She took over Sector 45, was named the new Supreme Commander, and now has Warner by her side. But she’s still the girl with the ability to kill with a single touch—and now she’s got the whole world in the palm of her hand. When tragedy hits, who will she become? Will she be able to control the power she wields and use it for good?

”Excerpt”

JULIETTE

I don’t wake up screaming anymore. I do not feel ill at the sight of blood. I do not flinch before firing a gun.

I will never again apologize for surviving.

And yet —

I’m startled at once by the sound of a door slamming open. I silence a gasp, spin around, and, by force of habit, rest my hand on the hilt of a semiautomatic hung from a holster at my side.

“J, we’ve got a serious problem.”

Kenji is staring at me — eyes narrowed — his hands on his hips, T-shirt taut across his chest. This is angry Kenji. Worried Kenji. It’s been sixteen days since we took over Sector 45 — since I crowned myself the supreme commander of The Reestablishment — and it’s been quiet. Unnervingly so. Every day I wake up, half terror, half exhilaration, anxiously awaiting the inevitable missives from enemy nations who would challenge my authority and wage war against us — and now, finally, it seems that moment has arrived. So I take a deep breath, crack my neck, and look Kenji in the eye.

“Tell me.”

He presses his lips together. Looks up at the ceiling. “So, okay — the first thing you need to know is that this isn’t my fault, okay? I was just trying to help.”

I falter. Frown. “What?”

“I mean, I knew his punkass was a major drama queen, but this is just beyond ridiculous —”

“I’m sorry — what?” I take my hand off my gun; feel my body unclench. “Kenji, what are you talking about? This isn’t about the war?”

“The war? What? J, are you not paying attention? Your boyfriend is having a freaking conniption right now and you need to go handle his ass before I do.”

I exhale, irritated. “Are you serious? Again with this nonsense? Jesus, Kenji.” I unlatch the holster from my back and toss it on the bed behind me. “What did you do this time?”

“See?” Kenji points at me. “See — why are you so quick to judge, huh, princess? Why assume that I was the one who did something wrong? Why me?” He crosses his arms against his chest, lowers his voice. “And you know, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this for a while, actually, because I really feel that, as supreme commander, you can’t be showing preferential treatment like this, but clearly —”

Kenji goes suddenly still.

At the creak of the door Kenji’s eyebrows shoot up; a soft click and his eyes widen; a muted rustle of movement and suddenly the barrel of a gun is pressed against the back of his head. Kenji forms shaking fists as he stares at me, his lips making no sound as he mouths the word psychopath over and over again.

The psychopath in question winks at me from where he’s standing, smiling like he couldn’t possibly be holding a gun to the head of our mutual friend. I manage to suppress a laugh.

“Hey —” Kenji’s arms fly up in mock surrender. “I never said she failed at anything, okay? And you are clearly overreact —”

Warner glares at him and Kenji retreats, backing out of the room before Warner has another chance to react; and then, just as I let out a sigh of relief, Kenji pops his head back into the doorway and says

“I think the cut looks cute, actually”

and Warner slams the door in his face.

Welcome to my brand-new life as supreme commander of The Reestablishment.

JULIETTE

I don’t wake up screaming anymore. I do not feel ill at the sight of blood. I do not flinch before firing a gun.

I will never again apologize for surviving.

And yet —

I’m startled at once by the sound of a door slamming open. I silence a gasp, spin around, and, by force of habit, rest my hand on the hilt of a semiautomatic hung from a holster at my side.

“J, we’ve got a serious problem.”

Kenji is staring at me — eyes narrowed — his hands on his hips, T-shirt taut across his chest. This is angry Kenji. Worried Kenji. It’s been sixteen days since we took over Sector 45 — since I crowned myself the supreme commander of The Reestablishment — and it’s been quiet. Unnervingly so. Every day I wake up, half terror, half exhilaration, anxiously awaiting the inevitable missives from enemy nations who would challenge my authority and wage war against us — and now, finally, it seems that moment has arrived. So I take a deep breath, crack my neck, and look Kenji in the eye.

“Tell me.”

He presses his lips together. Looks up at the ceiling. “So, okay — the first thing you need to know is that this isn’t my fault, okay? I was just trying to help.”

I falter. Frown. “What?”

“I mean, I knew his punkass was a major drama queen, but this is just beyond ridiculous —”

“I’m sorry — what?” I take my hand off my gun; feel my body unclench. “Kenji, what are you talking about? This isn’t about the war?”

“The war? What? J, are you not paying attention? Your boyfriend is having a freaking conniption right now and you need to go handle his ass before I do.”

I exhale, irritated. “Are you serious? Again with this nonsense? Jesus, Kenji.” I unlatch the holster from my back and toss it on the bed behind me. “What did you do this time?”

“See?” Kenji points at me. “See — why are you so quick to judge, huh, princess? Why assume that I was the one who did something wrong? Why me?” He crosses his arms against his chest, lowers his voice. “And you know, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about this for a while, actually, because I really feel that, as supreme commander, you can’t be showing preferential treatment like this, but clearly —”

Kenji goes suddenly still.

At the creak of the door Kenji’s eyebrows shoot up; a soft click and his eyes widen; a muted rustle of movement and suddenly the barrel of a gun is pressed against the back of his head. Kenji forms shaking fists as he stares at me, his lips making no sound as he mouths the word psychopath over and over again.

The psychopath in question winks at me from where he’s standing, smiling like he couldn’t possibly be holding a gun to the head of our mutual friend. I manage to suppress a laugh.

“Hey —” Kenji’s arms fly up in mock surrender. “I never said she failed at anything, okay? And you are clearly overreact —”

Warner glares at him and Kenji retreats, backing out of the room before Warner has another chance to react; and then, just as I let out a sigh of relief, Kenji pops his head back into the doorway and says

“I think the cut looks cute, actually”

and Warner slams the door in his face.

Welcome to my brand-new life as supreme commander of The Reestablishment.

8. War Storm (Red Queen #4)

Genre : Young Adult, Romance, Fantasy, Science Fiction, Dystopia

Type : Tetralogy

Status : Completed series

BLURB :

Victory comes at a price.

Mare Barrow learned this all too well when Cal’s betrayal nearly destroyed her. Now determined to protect her heart—and secure freedom for Reds and newbloods like her—Mare resolves to overthrow the kingdom of Norta once and for all… starting with the crown on Maven’s head.

But no battle is won alone, and before the Reds may rise as one, Mare must side with the boy who broke her heart in order to defeat the boy who almost broke her. Cal’s powerful Silver allies, alongside Mare and the Scarlet Guard, prove a formidable force. But Maven is driven by an obsession so deep, he will stop at nothing to have Mare as his own again, even if it means demolishing everything—and everyone—in his path.

War is coming, and all Mare has fought for hangs in the balance. Will victory be enough to topple the Silver kingdoms? Or will the little lightning girl be forever silenced?

In the epic conclusion to Victoria Aveyard’s stunning series, Mare must embrace her fate and summon all her power… for all will be tested, but not all will survive.

”Excerpt”

The first cycle snarls out of the tree line, its single headlight blinding. The raider on it is small, with spindly limbs, armor, and goggles. He is also boldly stupid, driving the cycle up and off a boulder, sending himself arcing over the road.

Above me, Evangeline slices her hands through the air. The cycle shreds at her command, spokes and pipes peeling apart.

But she isn’t the only magnetron here.

The raider keeps his seat, and the cycle knits back together beneath his body, continuing its leap over the hood of the transport.

In the darkness, it’s hard to discern their shadows. They don’t look like the Silvers I’m used to, in fine robes, polished armor, and gleaming jewels. They don’t even have the neat severity of training suits and uniforms. These Silvers are different, their clothes a patchwork, their weapons and gear mismatched. I’m reminded, more than anything, of the Scarlet Guard in their scraps of red, united only by a color and a cause.

The cycles disappear into the smoky underbrush, their headlights bobbing and weaving out of sight. I reach for the engines, trying to grab hold before they pass beyond my grasp. But another rumble makes me pause, a pounding thrum lurching close.

I can feel it in my teeth.

Monsters burst from the ash, their shaggy heads massive, horns lowered, hooves stamping. Dozens of them, snorting and braying in hulking ranks. The stampede pummels into the convoy, knocking over each transport even as they meet bullets and fire and lightning and knives. The monsters are too strong, too strange. Their hides thick, muscles thicker, with bone like living armor. I watch one catch a bullet in the forehead and keep on ramming, horns tearing through metal like paper. I barely have the wherewithal to scream.

Our transport tips beneath us, knocked off the road by the monstrous charge. We topple with it. I hit the dirt hard and taste blood. Someone holds me down, their hand on my neck. Through my hair, I glimpse the transport as it sails over us. Evangeline is silhouetted against the sight, arms outstretched, fists clenched. She swings, using the transport like a battering ram, and tosses it into the stampeding herd of fearsome creatures. They circle and charge again, their eyes wide and furious, clearly under the control of a Silver animos.

I scramble up, using Tiberias’s arm to leverage my weight and get back on my feet. Some yards away, Farley fires her gun from a knee. Her bullets have no effect on the beasts as they run, closing the distance quickly.

Gritting my teeth, I toss and spread, weaving purple-white lighting across their path. The beasts rear in terror, still animals despite whoever is controlling them. A few attempt to run through. They scream in pain, collapsing in heaps of twitching hide and tossing horns.

I try to ignore the terrible sound and narrow my eyes, squinting through the semidarkness as fear gives way to instinct. My movements come without thought, every step and sweep of my arms immediate. In my focus, I almost don’t notice the creeping sensation, the heavy weight falling around my shoulders. The press is gentle at first, easy to mistake for exhaustion.

But my lightning wanes, not as bright as before. Not as easy to control. It flickers, sparking weakly as I brush aside another raider. He falls but gets back up quickly, a fist clenched in my direction.

The force of his ability sends me to my knees, and I lose all sensation of electricity. Like a candle snuffed out, unable to spark and burn.

I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

I can’t fight.

The first cycle snarls out of the tree line, its single headlight blinding. The raider on it is small, with spindly limbs, armor, and goggles. He is also boldly stupid, driving the cycle up and off a boulder, sending himself arcing over the road.

Above me, Evangeline slices her hands through the air. The cycle shreds at her command, spokes and pipes peeling apart.

But she isn’t the only magnetron here.

The raider keeps his seat, and the cycle knits back together beneath his body, continuing its leap over the hood of the transport.

In the darkness, it’s hard to discern their shadows. They don’t look like the Silvers I’m used to, in fine robes, polished armor, and gleaming jewels. They don’t even have the neat severity of training suits and uniforms. These Silvers are different, their clothes a patchwork, their weapons and gear mismatched. I’m reminded, more than anything, of the Scarlet Guard in their scraps of red, united only by a color and a cause.

The cycles disappear into the smoky underbrush, their headlights bobbing and weaving out of sight. I reach for the engines, trying to grab hold before they pass beyond my grasp. But another rumble makes me pause, a pounding thrum lurching close.

I can feel it in my teeth.

Monsters burst from the ash, their shaggy heads massive, horns lowered, hooves stamping. Dozens of them, snorting and braying in hulking ranks. The stampede pummels into the convoy, knocking over each transport even as they meet bullets and fire and lightning and knives. The monsters are too strong, too strange. Their hides thick, muscles thicker, with bone like living armor. I watch one catch a bullet in the forehead and keep on ramming, horns tearing through metal like paper. I barely have the wherewithal to scream.

Our transport tips beneath us, knocked off the road by the monstrous charge. We topple with it. I hit the dirt hard and taste blood. Someone holds me down, their hand on my neck. Through my hair, I glimpse the transport as it sails over us. Evangeline is silhouetted against the sight, arms outstretched, fists clenched. She swings, using the transport like a battering ram, and tosses it into the stampeding herd of fearsome creatures. They circle and charge again, their eyes wide and furious, clearly under the control of a Silver animos.

I scramble up, using Tiberias’s arm to leverage my weight and get back on my feet. Some yards away, Farley fires her gun from a knee. Her bullets have no effect on the beasts as they run, closing the distance quickly.

Gritting my teeth, I toss and spread, weaving purple-white lighting across their path. The beasts rear in terror, still animals despite whoever is controlling them. A few attempt to run through. They scream in pain, collapsing in heaps of twitching hide and tossing horns.

I try to ignore the terrible sound and narrow my eyes, squinting through the semidarkness as fear gives way to instinct. My movements come without thought, every step and sweep of my arms immediate. In my focus, I almost don’t notice the creeping sensation, the heavy weight falling around my shoulders. The press is gentle at first, easy to mistake for exhaustion.

But my lightning wanes, not as bright as before. Not as easy to control. It flickers, sparking weakly as I brush aside another raider. He falls but gets back up quickly, a fist clenched in my direction.

The force of his ability sends me to my knees, and I lose all sensation of electricity. Like a candle snuffed out, unable to spark and burn.

I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

I can’t fight.

9. Leah on the Offbeat (Creekwood #2)

Genre : Young Adult, Romance, Contemporary, LGBT

Type : Duology

Status : Completed series

BLURB :

Leah Burke—girl-band drummer, master of deadpan, and Simon Spier’s best friend from the award-winning Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda—takes center stage in this novel of first love and senior-year angst.

When it comes to drumming, Leah Burke is usually on beat—but real life isn’t always so rhythmic. An anomaly in her friend group, she’s the only child of a young, single mom, and her life is decidedly less privileged. She loves to draw but is too self-conscious to show it. And even though her mom knows she’s bisexual, she hasn’t mustered the courage to tell her friends—not even her openly gay BFF, Simon.

So Leah really doesn’t know what to do when her rock-solid friend group starts to fracture in unexpected ways. With prom and college on the horizon, tensions are running high. It’s hard for Leah to strike the right note while the people she loves are fighting—especially when she realizes she might love one of them more than she ever intended.

”Excerpt”

I don’t mean to be dramatic, but God save me from Morgan picking our set list. That girl is a suburban dad’s midlife crisis in a high school senior’s body.

Case in point: she’s kneeling on the floor, using the keyboard stool as a desk, and every title on her list is a mediocre classic rock song. I’m a very tolerant person, but as an American, a musician, and a self-respecting human being, it is both my duty and my privilege to blanket veto that shit.

I lean forward on my stool to peer over her shoulder. “No Bon Jovi. No Journey.”

“Wait, seriously?” says Morgan. “People love ‘Don’t Stop Believin’.’”

“People love meth. Should we start doing meth?”

Anna raises her eyebrows. “Leah, did you just—”

“Did I just compare ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’ to meth?” I shrug. “Why, yes. Yes I did.”

Anna and Morgan exchange a capital-L Look. It’s a Look that says here we go, she’s about to dig her heels in.

“I’m just saying. The song is a mess. The lyrics are bullshit.” I give a little tap on the snare for emphasis.

“I like the lyrics,” Anna says. “They’re hopeful.”

“It’s not about whether they’re hopeful. It’s about the gross implausibility of a midnight train going, quote unquote, anywhere.”

They exchange another Look, this time with tiny shrugs. Translation: she has a point.

Translation of the translation: Leah Catherine Burke is an actual genius, and we should never ever doubt her music taste.

“I guess we shouldn’t add anything new until Taylor and Nora are back,” Morgan concedes. And she’s right. School musical rehearsals have kept Taylor and Nora out of commission since January. And even though the rest of us have been meeting a few times a week, it sucks rehearsing without your singer and lead guitarist.

“Okay,” Anna says. “Then I guess we’re done here?”

“Done with rehearsal?”

Welp. I guess I should have shut up about Journey. Like, I get it. I’m white. I’m supposed to love shitty classic rock. But I kind of thought we were all enjoying this lively debate about music and meth. Maybe it went off the rails somewhere, though, because now Morgan’s putting the keyboard away and Anna’s texting her mom to pick her up. I guess that’s game over.My mom won’t be here for another twenty minutes, so I hang around the music room even after they leave. I don’t really mind. It’s actually nice to drum alone. I let my sticks take the lead, from the bass to the snare and again and again. Some fills on the toms. Some chhh chhh chhh on the hi-hat, and then the crash.

Crash.

Crash.

And another.

I don’t mean to be dramatic, but God save me from Morgan picking our set list. That girl is a suburban dad’s midlife crisis in a high school senior’s body.

Case in point: she’s kneeling on the floor, using the keyboard stool as a desk, and every title on her list is a mediocre classic rock song. I’m a very tolerant person, but as an American, a musician, and a self-respecting human being, it is both my duty and my privilege to blanket veto that shit.

I lean forward on my stool to peer over her shoulder. “No Bon Jovi. No Journey.”

“Wait, seriously?” says Morgan. “People love ‘Don’t Stop Believin’.’”

“People love meth. Should we start doing meth?”

Anna raises her eyebrows. “Leah, did you just—”

“Did I just compare ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’ to meth?” I shrug. “Why, yes. Yes I did.”

Anna and Morgan exchange a capital-L Look. It’s a Look that says here we go, she’s about to dig her heels in.

“I’m just saying. The song is a mess. The lyrics are bullshit.” I give a little tap on the snare for emphasis.

“I like the lyrics,” Anna says. “They’re hopeful.”

“It’s not about whether they’re hopeful. It’s about the gross implausibility of a midnight train going, quote unquote, anywhere.”

They exchange another Look, this time with tiny shrugs. Translation: she has a point.

Translation of the translation: Leah Catherine Burke is an actual genius, and we should never ever doubt her music taste.

“I guess we shouldn’t add anything new until Taylor and Nora are back,” Morgan concedes. And she’s right. School musical rehearsals have kept Taylor and Nora out of commission since January. And even though the rest of us have been meeting a few times a week, it sucks rehearsing without your singer and lead guitarist.

“Okay,” Anna says. “Then I guess we’re done here?”

“Done with rehearsal?”

Welp. I guess I should have shut up about Journey. Like, I get it. I’m white. I’m supposed to love shitty classic rock. But I kind of thought we were all enjoying this lively debate about music and meth. Maybe it went off the rails somewhere, though, because now Morgan’s putting the keyboard away and Anna’s texting her mom to pick her up. I guess that’s game over.My mom won’t be here for another twenty minutes, so I hang around the music room even after they leave. I don’t really mind. It’s actually nice to drum alone. I let my sticks take the lead, from the bass to the snare and again and again. Some fills on the toms. Some chhh chhh chhh on the hi-hat, and then the crash.

Crash.

Crash.

And another.

10. To Kill A Kingdom

Genre : Young Adult, Romance, Fantasy, Retelling

Type : Standalone

Status : Published

BLURB :

Princess Lira is siren royalty and the most lethal of them all. With the hearts of seventeen princes in her collection, she is revered across the sea. Until a twist of fate forces her to kill one of her own. To punish her daughter, the Sea Queen transforms Lira into the one thing they loathe most—a human. Robbed of her song, Lira has until the winter solstice to deliver Prince Elian’s heart to the Sea Queen or remain a human forever.

The ocean is the only place Prince Elian calls home, even though he is heir to the most powerful kingdom in the world. Hunting sirens is more than an unsavory hobby—it’s his calling. When he rescues a drowning woman in the ocean, she’s more than what she appears. She promises to help him find the key to destroying all of sirenkind for good—But can he trust her? And just how many deals will Elian have to barter to eliminate mankind’s greatest enemy?

”Excerpt”

I HAVE A HEART for every year I’ve been alive.

There are seventeen hidden in the sand of my bedroom. Every so often, I claw through the shingle, just to check they’re still there. Buried deep and bloody. I count each of them, so I can be sure none were stolen in the night. It’s not such an odd fear to have. Hearts are power, and if there’s one thing my kind craves more than the ocean, it’s power.

I’ve heard things: tales of lost hearts and harpooned women stapled to the ocean bed as punishment for their treachery. Left to suffer until their blood becomes salt and they dissolve to sea foam. These are the women who take the human bounty of their kin. Mermaids more fish than flesh, with an upper body to match the decadent scales of their fins.

Unlike sirens, mermaids have stretched blue husks and limbs in place of hair, with a jawlessness that lets their mouths stretch to the size of small boats and swallow sharks whole. Their deep-blue flesh is dotted with fins that spread up their arms and spines. Fish and human both, with the beauty of neither.

They have the capacity to be deadly, like all monsters, but where sirens seduce and kill, mermaids remain fascinated by humans. They steal trinkets and follow ships in hopes that treasure will fall from the decks. Sometimes they save the lives of sailors and take nothing but charms in return. And when they steal the hearts we keep, it isn’t for power. It’s because they think that if they eat enough of them, they might become human themselves.

I hate mermaids.

My hair snakes down my back, as red as my left eye—and only my left, of course, because the right eye of every siren is the color of the sea they were born into. For me, that’s the great sea of Diávolos, with waters of apple and sapphire. A selection of each so it manages to be neither. In that ocean lies the sea kingdom of Keto.

It’s a well-known fact that sirens are beautiful, but the bloodline of Keto is royal and with that comes its own beauty. A magnificence forged in salt water and regality. We have eyelashes born from iceberg shavings and lips painted with the blood of sailors. It’s a wonder we even need our song to steal hearts.

“Which will you take, cousin?” Kahlia asks in Psáriin.

She sits beside me on the rock and stares at the ship in the distance. Her scales are deep auburn and her blond hair barely reaches her breasts, which are covered by a braid of orange seaweed.

“You’re ridiculous,” I tell her. “You know which.”

The ship plows idly along the calm waters of Adékaros, one of the many human kingdoms I’ve vowed to rid of a prince. It’s smaller than most and made from scarlet wood that represents the colors of their country.

Humans enjoy flaunting their treasures for the world, but it only makes them targets for creatures like Kahlia and me, who can easily spot a royal ship. After all, it’s the only one in the fleet with the painted wood and tiger flag. The only vessel on which the Adékarosin prince ever sails.

Easy prey for those in the mood to hunt.

The sun weighs on my back. Its heat presses against my neck and causes my hair to stick to my wet skin. I ache for the ice of the sea, so sharp with cold that it feels like glorious knives in the slits between my bones.

“It’s a shame,” says Kahlia. “When I was spying on him, it was like looking at an angel. He has such a pretty face.”

“His heart will be prettier.”

Kahlia breaks into a wild smile. “It’s been an age since your last kill, Lira,” she teases. “Are you sure you’re not out of practice?”

“A year is hardly an age.”

“It depends who’s counting.”

I sigh. “Then tell me who that is so I can kill them and be done with this conversation.”

Kahlia’s grin is ungodly. The kind reserved for moments when I am at my most dreadful, because that’s the trait sirens are supposed to value most. Our awfulness is treasured. Friendship and kinship taught to be as foreign as land. Loyalty reserved only for the Sea Queen.

“You are a little heartless today, aren’t you?”

“Never,” I say. “There are seventeen under my bed.”

Kahlia shakes the water from her hair. “So many princes you’ve tasted.”

She says it as though it’s something to be proud of, but that’s because Kahlia is young and has taken only two hearts of her own. None of them royalty. That’s my specialty, my territory. Some of Kahlia’s reverence is for that. The wonder of whether the lips of a prince taste different from those of any other human. I can’t say, for princes are all I’ve ever tasted.

I HAVE A HEART for every year I’ve been alive.

There are seventeen hidden in the sand of my bedroom. Every so often, I claw through the shingle, just to check they’re still there. Buried deep and bloody. I count each of them, so I can be sure none were stolen in the night. It’s not such an odd fear to have. Hearts are power, and if there’s one thing my kind craves more than the ocean, it’s power.

I’ve heard things: tales of lost hearts and harpooned women stapled to the ocean bed as punishment for their treachery. Left to suffer until their blood becomes salt and they dissolve to sea foam. These are the women who take the human bounty of their kin. Mermaids more fish than flesh, with an upper body to match the decadent scales of their fins.

Unlike sirens, mermaids have stretched blue husks and limbs in place of hair, with a jawlessness that lets their mouths stretch to the size of small boats and swallow sharks whole. Their deep-blue flesh is dotted with fins that spread up their arms and spines. Fish and human both, with the beauty of neither.

They have the capacity to be deadly, like all monsters, but where sirens seduce and kill, mermaids remain fascinated by humans. They steal trinkets and follow ships in hopes that treasure will fall from the decks. Sometimes they save the lives of sailors and take nothing but charms in return. And when they steal the hearts we keep, it isn’t for power. It’s because they think that if they eat enough of them, they might become human themselves.

I hate mermaids.

My hair snakes down my back, as red as my left eye—and only my left, of course, because the right eye of every siren is the color of the sea they were born into. For me, that’s the great sea of Diávolos, with waters of apple and sapphire. A selection of each so it manages to be neither. In that ocean lies the sea kingdom of Keto.

It’s a well-known fact that sirens are beautiful, but the bloodline of Keto is royal and with that comes its own beauty. A magnificence forged in salt water and regality. We have eyelashes born from iceberg shavings and lips painted with the blood of sailors. It’s a wonder we even need our song to steal hearts.

“Which will you take, cousin?” Kahlia asks in Psáriin.

She sits beside me on the rock and stares at the ship in the distance. Her scales are deep auburn and her blond hair barely reaches her breasts, which are covered by a braid of orange seaweed.

“You’re ridiculous,” I tell her. “You know which.”

The ship plows idly along the calm waters of Adékaros, one of the many human kingdoms I’ve vowed to rid of a prince. It’s smaller than most and made from scarlet wood that represents the colors of their country.

Humans enjoy flaunting their treasures for the world, but it only makes them targets for creatures like Kahlia and me, who can easily spot a royal ship. After all, it’s the only one in the fleet with the painted wood and tiger flag. The only vessel on which the Adékarosin prince ever sails.

Easy prey for those in the mood to hunt.

The sun weighs on my back. Its heat presses against my neck and causes my hair to stick to my wet skin. I ache for the ice of the sea, so sharp with cold that it feels like glorious knives in the slits between my bones.

“It’s a shame,” says Kahlia. “When I was spying on him, it was like looking at an angel. He has such a pretty face.”

“His heart will be prettier.”

Kahlia breaks into a wild smile. “It’s been an age since your last kill, Lira,” she teases. “Are you sure you’re not out of practice?”

“A year is hardly an age.”

“It depends who’s counting.”

I sigh. “Then tell me who that is so I can kill them and be done with this conversation.”

Kahlia’s grin is ungodly. The kind reserved for moments when I am at my most dreadful, because that’s the trait sirens are supposed to value most. Our awfulness is treasured. Friendship and kinship taught to be as foreign as land. Loyalty reserved only for the Sea Queen.

“You are a little heartless today, aren’t you?”

“Never,” I say. “There are seventeen under my bed.”

Kahlia shakes the water from her hair. “So many princes you’ve tasted.”

She says it as though it’s something to be proud of, but that’s because Kahlia is young and has taken only two hearts of her own. None of them royalty. That’s my specialty, my territory. Some of Kahlia’s reverence is for that. The wonder of whether the lips of a prince taste different from those of any other human. I can’t say, for princes are all I’ve ever tasted.

11. Daughter of the Siren Queen (Daughter of the Pirate King #2)

Genre : Young Adult, Romance, Adventure, Pirate

Type : Duology

Status : Completed Series

BLURB :

Alosa’s mission is finally complete. Not only has she recovered all three pieces of the map to a legendary hidden treasure, but the pirates who originally took her captive are now prisoners on her ship. Still unfairly attractive and unexpectedly loyal, first mate Riden is a constant distraction, but now he’s under her orders. And she takes great comfort in knowing that the villainous Vordan will soon be facing her father’s justice.

When Vordan exposes a secret her father has kept for years, Alosa and her crew find themselves in a deadly race with the feared Pirate King. Despite the danger, Alosa knows they will recover the treasure first . . . after all, she is the daughter of the Siren Queen.

”Excerpt”

Holding my knife against a sleeping Vordan’s throat fills me with the sweetest feeling of justice. I move my free hand to cover his mouth.

His eyes fly open, and I press the knife in a little deeper, just enough to slice the skin but not enough to make him bleed.

“Call out for help, and I slit your throat,” I whisper. I remove my free hand from his mouth.

“Alosa,” he says, a bitter acknowledgment.

“Vordan.” He’s just as I remember. A man with unremarkable looks: brown hair and eyes, an average build, average height. Nothing to make him stand out in a crowd, which is how he likes it.

“You figured it out,” he says, obviously referring to his identity, which he’d initially lied about. When I was a prisoner on the Night Farer, he had pretended to be one of my father’s men and had gone by the name Theris.

“Where’s the map?” I ask.

“Not here.”

Sorinda, who stands as a silent sentinel behind me, begins moving about the room. I hear her rustling through the drawers of the dresser, then picking at the floorboards.

“I have no use for you if you don’t tell me where it is,” I say. “I will end your life. Right here. In this room. Your men will find your body in the morning.”

“If I have to ask you one more time, I’ll start singing,” I warn. “What should I make you do first? Break your legs? Draw pictures on the walls in your own blood?”

He swallows. “My men outnumber yours three to one. I’m not going anywhere, and that voice of yours will do you little good when you can only control three at a time.”

“Your men won’t be able to do much fighting when they’re asleep in their beds. My girls are already locking them in their rooms.”

His eyes narrow.

“Pity you didn’t catch my spy in your ranks, and it’s a shame you didn’t notice her switching out all the locks on the doors. Yes, they lock from the outside now.”

“They’ve been alerted. My men on watch—”

“Are all dead. The four men on this roof. The five in the streets. The three on the butcher’s roof, the tanner’s, and the supply store.”

His mouth widens so I can see his teeth. “Six,” he says.

My breathing stops for a beat.

“I had six on the streets,” he clarifies.

What? No. We would’ve known—

A bell tolls so loudly it will wake the entire town.

I swear under my breath.

“The little boy,” I say, just as Vordan reaches underneath his pillow. For the dagger I’ve already removed. “Time to go, Sorinda.”

Get up. I direct the words at Vordan, but they are not an ordinary command spoken with an ordinary voice. The words are sung, full of magic passed on to me by my siren mother.

And all men who hear them have no choice but to obey.

Vordan rises from his bed at once, plants his feet on the floor.

Where is the map?

His hand goes to his throat and pulls out a leather cord hidden beneath his shirt. On the end is a glass vial, no bigger than my thumb, stoppered with a cork. And rolled up inside is the final map piece. With it, my father and I will finally travel to the siren island and claim its treasure.

My body is already alive with song, my senses heightened. I can hear the men moving below, shrugging on their boots and running for their doors.

I pull the vial at Vordan’s neck. The cord snaps, and I place the entire necklace in the pocket of the ebony corset I wear.

I make Vordan go out the door first. He’s barefoot, of course, and wears only a loose flannel shirt and cotton trousers. The man who locked me in a cage does not get the comfort of shoes and a coat.

Sorinda is right behind me as I step into the hallway. Below, I hear Vordan’s men throwing the weight of their bodies against their locked doors, trying to respond to the warning bell. Damn that bell!

My girls haven’t reached the upper floors yet. Men from this floor and the one below spill into the hallway. It doesn’t take them long to spot their captain.

I sing a series of words to Vordan in no more than a whisper.

He shouts, “Outside, you fools! It’s the land king’s men. They approach from the south! Go and meet them.”

Many start to move, heeding their captain’s call, but one man shouts, “No, look behind him! It’s the siren bitch!”

That man, I decide, dies first.

Holding my knife against a sleeping Vordan’s throat fills me with the sweetest feeling of justice. I move my free hand to cover his mouth.

His eyes fly open, and I press the knife in a little deeper, just enough to slice the skin but not enough to make him bleed.

“Call out for help, and I slit your throat,” I whisper. I remove my free hand from his mouth.

“Alosa,” he says, a bitter acknowledgment.

“Vordan.” He’s just as I remember. A man with unremarkable looks: brown hair and eyes, an average build, average height. Nothing to make him stand out in a crowd, which is how he likes it.

“You figured it out,” he says, obviously referring to his identity, which he’d initially lied about. When I was a prisoner on the Night Farer, he had pretended to be one of my father’s men and had gone by the name Theris.

“Where’s the map?” I ask.

“Not here.”

Sorinda, who stands as a silent sentinel behind me, begins moving about the room. I hear her rustling through the drawers of the dresser, then picking at the floorboards.

“I have no use for you if you don’t tell me where it is,” I say. “I will end your life. Right here. In this room. Your men will find your body in the morning.”

“If I have to ask you one more time, I’ll start singing,” I warn. “What should I make you do first? Break your legs? Draw pictures on the walls in your own blood?”

He swallows. “My men outnumber yours three to one. I’m not going anywhere, and that voice of yours will do you little good when you can only control three at a time.”

“Your men won’t be able to do much fighting when they’re asleep in their beds. My girls are already locking them in their rooms.”

His eyes narrow.

“Pity you didn’t catch my spy in your ranks, and it’s a shame you didn’t notice her switching out all the locks on the doors. Yes, they lock from the outside now.”

“They’ve been alerted. My men on watch—”

“Are all dead. The four men on this roof. The five in the streets. The three on the butcher’s roof, the tanner’s, and the supply store.”

His mouth widens so I can see his teeth. “Six,” he says.

My breathing stops for a beat.

“I had six on the streets,” he clarifies.

What? No. We would’ve known—

A bell tolls so loudly it will wake the entire town.

I swear under my breath.

“The little boy,” I say, just as Vordan reaches underneath his pillow. For the dagger I’ve already removed. “Time to go, Sorinda.”

Get up. I direct the words at Vordan, but they are not an ordinary command spoken with an ordinary voice. The words are sung, full of magic passed on to me by my siren mother.

And all men who hear them have no choice but to obey.

Vordan rises from his bed at once, plants his feet on the floor.

Where is the map?

His hand goes to his throat and pulls out a leather cord hidden beneath his shirt. On the end is a glass vial, no bigger than my thumb, stoppered with a cork. And rolled up inside is the final map piece. With it, my father and I will finally travel to the siren island and claim its treasure.

My body is already alive with song, my senses heightened. I can hear the men moving below, shrugging on their boots and running for their doors.

I pull the vial at Vordan’s neck. The cord snaps, and I place the entire necklace in the pocket of the ebony corset I wear.

I make Vordan go out the door first. He’s barefoot, of course, and wears only a loose flannel shirt and cotton trousers. The man who locked me in a cage does not get the comfort of shoes and a coat.

Sorinda is right behind me as I step into the hallway. Below, I hear Vordan’s men throwing the weight of their bodies against their locked doors, trying to respond to the warning bell. Damn that bell!

My girls haven’t reached the upper floors yet. Men from this floor and the one below spill into the hallway. It doesn’t take them long to spot their captain.

I sing a series of words to Vordan in no more than a whisper.

He shouts, “Outside, you fools! It’s the land king’s men. They approach from the south! Go and meet them.”

Many start to move, heeding their captain’s call, but one man shouts, “No, look behind him! It’s the siren bitch!”

That man, I decide, dies first.

12. Sky in the Deep

Genre : Young Adult, Fantasy, Historical Fiction

Type : Duology

Status : On-going Series

BLURB :

Part Wonder Woman, part Vikings—and all heart.

Raised to be a warrior, seventeen-year-old Eelyn fights alongside her Aska clansmen in an ancient rivalry against the Riki clan. Her life is brutal but simple: fight and survive. Until the day she sees the impossible on the battlefield—her brother, fighting with the enemy—the brother she watched die five years ago.

Faced with her brother’s betrayal, she must survive the winter in the mountains with the Riki, in a village where every neighbor is an enemy, every battle scar possibly one she delivered. But when the Riki village is raided by a ruthless clan thought to be a legend, Eelyn is even more desperate to get back to her beloved family.

She is given no choice but to trust Fiske, her brother’s friend, who sees her as a threat. They must do the impossible: unite the clans to fight together, or risk being slaughtered one by one. Driven by a love for her clan and her growing love for Fiske, Eelyn must confront her own definition of loyalty and family while daring to put her faith in the people she’s spent her life hating.

”Excerpt”

“They’re coming.”

I looked down the row of Aska hunched against each other, ducking behind the muddy hill. The fog sat on the field like a veil, but we could hear it. The blades of swords and axes brushing against armor vests. Quick footsteps in sucking mud. My heart beat almost in rhythm with the sounds, pulling one breath in and letting it touch another before I let it go.

My father’s rasping whistle caught my ears from down the line and I searched the dirt-smeared faces until I found a pair of bright blue eyes fixed on me. His gray-streaked beard hung braided down his chest behind the axe clutched in his huge fist. He tipped his chin up at me and I whistled back—our way of telling each other to be careful. To try not to die.

Mýra’s hand lifted the long braid over my shoulder and she nodded toward the field. “Together?”

“Always.” I looked behind us where our clansmen stood shoulder to shoulder in a sea of red leathers and bronze, all waiting for the call. Mýra and I had fought for our place at the front.

“Watch that left side.” Her kol-rimmed eyes dropped down to the broken ribs behind my vest.

She shook her head, dismissing me before she stood to check my armor one last time. I tried not to wince as she tightened the fastenings I’d intentionally left a bit loose. She pretended not to notice, but I caught the look in her eye.

“Stop worrying about me.” I ran a hand over the right side of my head where my hair was shorn to the scalp under the length of the braids.

I pulled her hand toward me to secure the straps of her shield onto her arm by memory. We’d been fighting mates for the last five years and I knew every piece of her armor as well as she knew every badly mended bone in my body.

“I’m not worried,” she smirked, “but I’ll bet my supper that I kill more Riki than you today.” She tossed my axe to me.

I pulled my sword from my scabbard with my right hand and caught the axe with my left. “Vegr yfir fjor.”

She settled her arm all the way into her shield, lifting it up over her head in an arc to stretch her shoulder before she repeated it back to me. “Vegr yfir fjor.”

Honor above life.

The first whistle cut into the air from our right, warning us to get ready, and I closed my eyes, feeling the steadiness of the earth beneath my feet. The sounds of battle rushing toward us bled together as the deep-throated prayers of my clansmen rose up around me like smoke from a wildfire. I let the words march out under my breath, asking Sigr to guard me. To help me bring down his enemies.

“Go!”

I reared back and swung my axe, sending it deep into the earth, and launched myself up and over the hill, flying forward. My feet hit the dirt and I ran, punching holes into the soft ground with my boots, toward the wall of fog hovering over the field. I kept track of Mýra in the corner of my eye as we were swallowed up by it, the cold rushing past us like a spray of water until dark figures appeared in the hazy distance.

The Riki.

The enemies of our god ran toward us in a swarm of fur and iron. Hair tangled in the wind. Sun glinting off blades. I picked up speed at the sight of them, tightening my fingers around my sword as I pushed forward, ahead of the others.

I let the growl crawl up the inside of me, from that deep place that comes alive in battle. I screamed, my eyes settling on a short man with orange furs wrapped up around his shoulders at the front of their line. I whistled to Mýra and leaned into the wind, running straight for him. As we neared them, I turned to the side and counted my steps, plotting my path to the moment when the space between us was eaten up by the sound of heavy bodies crashing into each other. I bit down hard as I reached him, my teeth bared. My sword came up behind me, my body lowering to the ground, and I swung it up as I passed, aiming for his gut.

His shield lifted just in time and he threw himself to the left, catching me with its edge. Black spots exploded into my vision as my lungs wheezed behind my sore ribs and the breath refused to return. I stumbled, trying to find my footing before I fell to the ground, and came back with my axe, ignoring the bloom of pain in my side. His sword caught the blade above his head, wrenching it back, but that’s all I needed.

His side was wide open.

I sunk my sword into it, finding the seam of his armor vest. His head flew back, his mouth open as he screamed, and Mýra’s sword came down on his neck in one smooth motion, slicing through the muscle and tendon. I yanked my blade free, pulling a spray of hot blood over my face with it. Mýra kicked the man over with the heel of her boot as another shadow appeared in the fog behind her.

“Down!” I shouted, letting my axe fly.

She dropped to the ground and the blade plunged into the chest of a Riki, sending him to his knees. His huge body fell onto her, pinning her to the dirt. The blood bubbling up from his mouth poured out, covering her pale skin in a stark shining red.

I ran to her, hooking my fingers into his armor vest from the other side of his body, and sunk down, pulling him with me. When she was free, she sprang to her feet, finding her sword and looking around us. I gripped the handle of my axe and pried it up, out of the bones in his chest.

The fog was beginning to clear, pushing back in the warmth of the morning light. From the hill, down to the river, the ground was covered with fighting clansmen, all pulling toward the water. Across the field, my father was driving his sword behind him, into the stomach of a Riki. I watched him fling it forward to catch another in the face, his eyes wide with fight and his chest full of thundering war cries.

“Come on!” I called back to Mýra as I ran, leaping over the fallen bodies and making my way toward the river’s edge, where the fighting was more concentrated.

I caught the back of a Riki’s knee with my sword, dropping him to the ground as I passed. And then another, leaving them both for someone else to finish.

“Eelyn!” She called my name just as I slammed into another body, and wide arms wrapped around me, squeezing so hard that the sword slipped from my fingers. I grunted, trying to kick free, but he was too strong. I bit into the flesh of the arm until I tasted blood and the hands shoved me to the ground. I hit hard, gasping for breath as I rolled onto my back and reached for my axe. But the Riki’s sword was already coming down on me. I rolled again, finding the knife at my belt with my fingers as I came back up onto my feet and faced him, the breath puffing out before me in white gusts.

Behind me, Mýra was fighting in the fog. “Eelyn!”

He lunged for me, swinging his sword up, and I fell back again. It cut through my sleeve and into the thick muscle of my arm. I threw the knife, handle over blade, and he dropped his head to the side. It narrowly missed him, grazing his ear, and when he looked back at me his eyes were on fire.

I scrambled backward, trying to get to my feet as he picked up his sword. My eyes fell to the spilled Aska blood covering his chest and arms as he stalked toward me. Behind him, my sword and my axe lay on the ground.

“Mýra!” I shouted, but she was completely out of sight now.

I looked around us, something churning up inside of me that I rarely felt in a fight—panic. I was nowhere near a weapon and there was no way I could take him down with my bare hands. He closed in, gritting his teeth, as he moved like a bear over the grass.

I thought of my father. His soil-stained hands. His deep, booming voice. And my home. The fire flickering in the dark. The frost on the glade in the mornings.

I stood, pressing my fingers into the hot wound at my arm and saying Sigr’s name under my breath, asking him to accept me. To welcome me. To watch over my father. “Vegr yfir fjor,” I whispered.

He slowed, watching my lips move.

The furs beneath his armor vest blew in the damp breeze, pushing up around his angled jaw. He blinked, pressing his mouth into a straight line as he took the last steps toward me and I didn’t run. I wasn’t going to be brought down by a blade in my back.

The steel gleamed as he pulled the sword up over his head, ready to bring it back down, and I closed my eyes. I breathed. I could see the reflection of the gray sky on the fjord. The willow bloomed on the hillside. The wind wove through my hair. I listened to the sound of my clansmen raging. Fighting in the distance.

“What are you doing?” The Riki wrenched free, picking his sword back up off the ground and driving past him, coming for me.

The man turned, throwing his arms around the Riki and swinging him back.

And that’s when I saw it—his face.

And I was frozen. I was the ice on the river. The snow clinging onto the mountainside.

“Iri.” It was the ghost of a word on my breath.

They stopped struggling, both looking up at me with wide eyes, and it dove deeper within me. What I was seeing. Who I was seeing.

“Iri?” My shaking hand clutched at my armor vest, tears coming up into my eyes. The storm in my stomach churned at the center of the chaos surrounding us.

The man with the sword looked at me, his eyes running over my face, working hard to put something together. But my eyes were on Iri. On the curve of his jaw. His hair—like straw in the sun. The blood smeared across his neck. Hands like my father’s.

“What is this, Iri?” The Riki’s grip tightened around the hilt of his sword, my blood still thick on its blade.

I could barely hear him. I could barely think, everything washed out in the flood of the vision before me.

Iri stepped toward me slowly, his eyes jumping back and forth on mine. I stopped breathing as his hands came up to my face and he leaned in so close that I could feel his breath on my forehead.

“Run, Eelyn.”

He let me go, and my lungs writhed and pulled, begging for air. I turned, looking for Mýra in the mist, opening my mouth to call out for my father. But my breath wouldn’t come.

He was gone, devoured by the fog, the Riki disappearing with him.

As if they were ghosts.

As if they were never there.

And they couldn’t have been. Because it was Iri, and the last time I saw my brother was five years ago. Lying dead in the snow.

“They’re coming.”

I looked down the row of Aska hunched against each other, ducking behind the muddy hill. The fog sat on the field like a veil, but we could hear it. The blades of swords and axes brushing against armor vests. Quick footsteps in sucking mud. My heart beat almost in rhythm with the sounds, pulling one breath in and letting it touch another before I let it go.

My father’s rasping whistle caught my ears from down the line and I searched the dirt-smeared faces until I found a pair of bright blue eyes fixed on me. His gray-streaked beard hung braided down his chest behind the axe clutched in his huge fist. He tipped his chin up at me and I whistled back—our way of telling each other to be careful. To try not to die.

Mýra’s hand lifted the long braid over my shoulder and she nodded toward the field. “Together?”

“Always.” I looked behind us where our clansmen stood shoulder to shoulder in a sea of red leathers and bronze, all waiting for the call. Mýra and I had fought for our place at the front.

“Watch that left side.” Her kol-rimmed eyes dropped down to the broken ribs behind my vest.

She shook her head, dismissing me before she stood to check my armor one last time. I tried not to wince as she tightened the fastenings I’d intentionally left a bit loose. She pretended not to notice, but I caught the look in her eye.

“Stop worrying about me.” I ran a hand over the right side of my head where my hair was shorn to the scalp under the length of the braids.

I pulled her hand toward me to secure the straps of her shield onto her arm by memory. We’d been fighting mates for the last five years and I knew every piece of her armor as well as she knew every badly mended bone in my body.

“I’m not worried,” she smirked, “but I’ll bet my supper that I kill more Riki than you today.” She tossed my axe to me.

I pulled my sword from my scabbard with my right hand and caught the axe with my left. “Vegr yfir fjor.”

She settled her arm all the way into her shield, lifting it up over her head in an arc to stretch her shoulder before she repeated it back to me. “Vegr yfir fjor.”

Honor above life.

The first whistle cut into the air from our right, warning us to get ready, and I closed my eyes, feeling the steadiness of the earth beneath my feet. The sounds of battle rushing toward us bled together as the deep-throated prayers of my clansmen rose up around me like smoke from a wildfire. I let the words march out under my breath, asking Sigr to guard me. To help me bring down his enemies.

“Go!”

I reared back and swung my axe, sending it deep into the earth, and launched myself up and over the hill, flying forward. My feet hit the dirt and I ran, punching holes into the soft ground with my boots, toward the wall of fog hovering over the field. I kept track of Mýra in the corner of my eye as we were swallowed up by it, the cold rushing past us like a spray of water until dark figures appeared in the hazy distance.

The Riki.

The enemies of our god ran toward us in a swarm of fur and iron. Hair tangled in the wind. Sun glinting off blades. I picked up speed at the sight of them, tightening my fingers around my sword as I pushed forward, ahead of the others.

I let the growl crawl up the inside of me, from that deep place that comes alive in battle. I screamed, my eyes settling on a short man with orange furs wrapped up around his shoulders at the front of their line. I whistled to Mýra and leaned into the wind, running straight for him. As we neared them, I turned to the side and counted my steps, plotting my path to the moment when the space between us was eaten up by the sound of heavy bodies crashing into each other. I bit down hard as I reached him, my teeth bared. My sword came up behind me, my body lowering to the ground, and I swung it up as I passed, aiming for his gut.

His shield lifted just in time and he threw himself to the left, catching me with its edge. Black spots exploded into my vision as my lungs wheezed behind my sore ribs and the breath refused to return. I stumbled, trying to find my footing before I fell to the ground, and came back with my axe, ignoring the bloom of pain in my side. His sword caught the blade above his head, wrenching it back, but that’s all I needed.

His side was wide open.

I sunk my sword into it, finding the seam of his armor vest. His head flew back, his mouth open as he screamed, and Mýra’s sword came down on his neck in one smooth motion, slicing through the muscle and tendon. I yanked my blade free, pulling a spray of hot blood over my face with it. Mýra kicked the man over with the heel of her boot as another shadow appeared in the fog behind her.

“Down!” I shouted, letting my axe fly.

She dropped to the ground and the blade plunged into the chest of a Riki, sending him to his knees. His huge body fell onto her, pinning her to the dirt. The blood bubbling up from his mouth poured out, covering her pale skin in a stark shining red.

I ran to her, hooking my fingers into his armor vest from the other side of his body, and sunk down, pulling him with me. When she was free, she sprang to her feet, finding her sword and looking around us. I gripped the handle of my axe and pried it up, out of the bones in his chest.

The fog was beginning to clear, pushing back in the warmth of the morning light. From the hill, down to the river, the ground was covered with fighting clansmen, all pulling toward the water. Across the field, my father was driving his sword behind him, into the stomach of a Riki. I watched him fling it forward to catch another in the face, his eyes wide with fight and his chest full of thundering war cries.

“Come on!” I called back to Mýra as I ran, leaping over the fallen bodies and making my way toward the river’s edge, where the fighting was more concentrated.

I caught the back of a Riki’s knee with my sword, dropping him to the ground as I passed. And then another, leaving them both for someone else to finish.

“Eelyn!” She called my name just as I slammed into another body, and wide arms wrapped around me, squeezing so hard that the sword slipped from my fingers. I grunted, trying to kick free, but he was too strong. I bit into the flesh of the arm until I tasted blood and the hands shoved me to the ground. I hit hard, gasping for breath as I rolled onto my back and reached for my axe. But the Riki’s sword was already coming down on me. I rolled again, finding the knife at my belt with my fingers as I came back up onto my feet and faced him, the breath puffing out before me in white gusts.

Behind me, Mýra was fighting in the fog. “Eelyn!”

He lunged for me, swinging his sword up, and I fell back again. It cut through my sleeve and into the thick muscle of my arm. I threw the knife, handle over blade, and he dropped his head to the side. It narrowly missed him, grazing his ear, and when he looked back at me his eyes were on fire.

I scrambled backward, trying to get to my feet as he picked up his sword. My eyes fell to the spilled Aska blood covering his chest and arms as he stalked toward me. Behind him, my sword and my axe lay on the ground.

“Mýra!” I shouted, but she was completely out of sight now.

I looked around us, something churning up inside of me that I rarely felt in a fight—panic. I was nowhere near a weapon and there was no way I could take him down with my bare hands. He closed in, gritting his teeth, as he moved like a bear over the grass.

I thought of my father. His soil-stained hands. His deep, booming voice. And my home. The fire flickering in the dark. The frost on the glade in the mornings.

I stood, pressing my fingers into the hot wound at my arm and saying Sigr’s name under my breath, asking him to accept me. To welcome me. To watch over my father. “Vegr yfir fjor,” I whispered.

He slowed, watching my lips move.

The furs beneath his armor vest blew in the damp breeze, pushing up around his angled jaw. He blinked, pressing his mouth into a straight line as he took the last steps toward me and I didn’t run. I wasn’t going to be brought down by a blade in my back.

The steel gleamed as he pulled the sword up over his head, ready to bring it back down, and I closed my eyes. I breathed. I could see the reflection of the gray sky on the fjord. The willow bloomed on the hillside. The wind wove through my hair. I listened to the sound of my clansmen raging. Fighting in the distance.

“What are you doing?” The Riki wrenched free, picking his sword back up off the ground and driving past him, coming for me.

The man turned, throwing his arms around the Riki and swinging him back.

And that’s when I saw it—his face.

And I was frozen. I was the ice on the river. The snow clinging onto the mountainside.

“Iri.” It was the ghost of a word on my breath.

They stopped struggling, both looking up at me with wide eyes, and it dove deeper within me. What I was seeing. Who I was seeing.

“Iri?” My shaking hand clutched at my armor vest, tears coming up into my eyes. The storm in my stomach churned at the center of the chaos surrounding us.

The man with the sword looked at me, his eyes running over my face, working hard to put something together. But my eyes were on Iri. On the curve of his jaw. His hair—like straw in the sun. The blood smeared across his neck. Hands like my father’s.

“What is this, Iri?” The Riki’s grip tightened around the hilt of his sword, my blood still thick on its blade.

I could barely hear him. I could barely think, everything washed out in the flood of the vision before me.

Iri stepped toward me slowly, his eyes jumping back and forth on mine. I stopped breathing as his hands came up to my face and he leaned in so close that I could feel his breath on my forehead.

“Run, Eelyn.”

He let me go, and my lungs writhed and pulled, begging for air. I turned, looking for Mýra in the mist, opening my mouth to call out for my father. But my breath wouldn’t come.

He was gone, devoured by the fog, the Riki disappearing with him.

As if they were ghosts.

As if they were never there.

And they couldn’t have been. Because it was Iri, and the last time I saw my brother was five years ago. Lying dead in the snow.